


The Violet Periwinkle

by orphan_account



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, M/M, Scarlet Pimpernel - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-30
Updated: 2012-11-30
Packaged: 2017-11-26 02:07:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/645360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They seek him here, they seek him there,<br/>Those Frenchies seek him everywhere.<br/>He makes their noses twitch and crinkle:<br/>That demmed, elusive Periwinkle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_i: Marcel_  
Marcel had always looked up to Gerard. Well, not literally—those extra four and a half inches of height were about the only natural advantage Marcel had over his younger brother—but he felt as though he had spent most of Gerard's life feeling inferior to him. In fact, it had started before Gerard had even been born. He was only three-and-a-half at the time, so his memories were hazy, but he definitely recalled his mama telling him he was going to have a brother or sister. She looked so happy that he immediately wondered what he'd done wrong to make her want a different baby instead of him.

As the son and heir to the Marqués de Castellbell, Marcel spent most of his life in the nursery with Nanny Arantxa, but he saw his mama's shape changing as the baby grew inside her. He also heard her singing as she passed through the castle. He loved to hear his mama sing; he thought it was the most beautiful sound in the world. He was a quiet, solemn boy whose huge eyes were always watching what was going on around him and often the servants forgot he was even there. He didn't understand half of what he overheard, but he did know that his mama's maids chattered about how pretty and healthy she looked, and how different it was from how sick her last baby had made her. Marcel knew that last baby was him, but he didn't know what he'd done to make his mama sick. He just knew that the new baby must have been better than him somehow.

*

It was a couple of weeks after Christmas, early in 1770, that it started. His mama was reading to him at bedtime when, suddenly, she gasped. Her hand clutched her tummy (which was now so big it got in the way when she kissed him goodnight), and her maids came running. They helped her out of the nursery without another word to Marcel, whose story was left unfinished, whose cheek was left unkissed.

For the next two days everyone's attention was focussed on his mama's quarters of the castle. Even Nanny Arantxa had gone up there: Marcel was left in the care of one of the junior maids, who didn't even know how to play soldiers properly. No-one would talk to him, and his questions were brushed aside with an abrupt, 'Shh, not now, Master Marcel!' He spent much of the time drawing and looking out of the window, wondering what on earth was going on and feeling lost and alone.

Then, at the end of the second day, Nanny Arantxa came back to the nursery. She bustled in with an air of excitement and whisked Marcel away to get changed. She scrubbed at his face until it felt raw, did the same with his hands and dressed him in his best clothes; the only answer she would give to his questions was a mysterious 'You'll see'.

His heart raced as he realised he was being taken to his mama's chamber. He had not seen her for two days, and he had missed her. Maybe she would explain to him what had been going on! But her chambers, when they reached them, were filled with people who all seemed too busy to notice him. He looked around for his mama, then spotted her sitting up in her bed. She looked so beautiful and happy that Marcel couldn't help running over and trying to clamber up onto the bed with her. Before he could get on properly he was shooed away by an old lady in a frilly cap, who told him to leave his mama alone as her baby needed her.

'Say hello to your brother Gerard, Marcelito,' his mama smiled.

The thing in her arms looked red and wrinkled, barely visible in its bundle of blankets, but it held the attention of everyone in the room. Marcel felt his mama stroke his hair, but the strange old lady wouldn't let Marcel get any closer.

He watched his mama as she smiled down on the new baby the way she used to smile at him. Marcel slipped away while no-one was looking… which wasn't hard, as they were all cooing over the new baby. He stomped down the corridor, kicking at the rugs. When he reached the nursery he curled up on the floor, feeling alone. No-one came looking for him.

He awoke when Nanny Arantxa picked him up to put him to bed. She chided him as she undressed him and said he was being very silly. Still, she cuddled him until he fell back to sleep. As he clung to her, he decided that he hated baby brothers.

*

The next few years weren't much better. Marcel tried not to listen to the wet nurse's comments about how Gerard was such an easy baby, how he was placid and peaceful and 'so different from Master Marcel with his fretful colic and permanent hunger', but even Nanny Arantxa's best efforts couldn't quite shake the weird feeling he got whenever he looked at his brother. At least she still seemed to love Marcel—in fact, she was playing with him more than ever—but it felt like she was the only one not obsessed with the new baby.

As Gerard grew the comparisons continued, and gave Marcel new things about which to feel inferior. When Gerard was two, he was toddling round independently—usually after Marcel, eager to mess up whatever it was he was doing. One afternoon Marcel was trying particularly hard to shake his brother-shaped shadow when he turned a corner too quickly and ran into a sideboard. Before he could stop them, three vases fell to the floor and shattered.

When the maids came running, Marcel's face gave him away. He was bright red, and trying desperately to pick up the pieces, but that did not spare him his scolding. He listened dutifully, head down, as the housekeeper told him it was his duty as the Visconde to be dignified and calm, not tear around the castle like a goatherd. She pointed at Gerard, who was toddling round in his skirts, weaving in and out of the furniture as if he had an inbuilt ornament sensor. Marcel knew what was coming.

'Why can't you be more like Master Gerard there? He's not clumsy and careless, and he's only two!'

Marcel scuffed his toes against the flags and felt his cheeks burn hotter.

*

And so it continued. It wasn't like Marcel _hated_ Gerard, because it was difficult to hate someone who trotted round after you adoringly, clutching at your new, grown-up knickerbockers and offering you a chew on his teething coral. If he were honest, he secretly loved his gap-toothed, easy-going baby brother. He had felt a thrill of pride when Nanny Arantxa had told him that Gerard's first word had been 'Marcel', and couldn't wait until he was old enough to play with properly.

All the same, Marcel couldn't help feeling that everything he had done as a baby, Gerard did sooner. And better.

 

 _ii: Gerard_  
Gerard had always looked up to Marcel. Not only literally—his big brother had always been physically bigger than him—he felt as though he had spent most of his life feeling inferior. His first clear memory was of Marcel's seventh birthday. This was also the day that Marcel was fully breeched, and Gerard barely recognised the tiny version of their father when the Marqués led his eldest son downstairs. Gerard looked down at his own skirts and yearned to be as grown-up and smart as his brother.

In honour of the milestone, Marcel was given his own pony. While he and their papa were stroking the pony's nose and getting to know it, Gerard slipped into the stall and tried to climb on its back, desperate to show them that he was grown up too. He'd barely got one leg up when he was unceremoniously whisked away by a muttering head groom ('You're not big enough to ride ponies, Master Gerard—and that one belongs to the Visconde, not you!'). Grumbling and kicking as he was set down, he wondered if he'd ever be big enough. Or good enough.

*

A chance to prove that he was big enough came a year later, when he found himself in possession of Marcel's paints and a large, blank wall. The room was one of the many unused ones in the castle, and Marcel had taken to hiding out in it instead of playing with Gerard. Gerard wouldn't have minded so much, had Marcel not been at such pains to keep Gerard out. Gerard _wanted_ his big brother to trust him and be proud of him, really he did, but when he saw the key left on a side table the temptation was just too great.

It was a large, well-lit room with an enormous window. Gerard stood on tiptoes to peep out of it, and was rewarded with the sight of Marcel heading towards the stables. If he was going to ride Bucephalus, that gave Gerard plenty of time to investigate.

The room was sparsely furnished, and Gerard started at the table in front of the window. It had some toys scattered on it, and a large bowl of fruit. Gerard helped himself to an orange and moved across to the dresser.

There were tubes of paint in the top dresser drawer, and brushes in a jar on the top. The nearby sink had a palette resting in it, and there was a pile of canvases leaning against the wall. Gerard looked through some of the paintings, recognised the people and buildings they had capture and wondered how Marcel had the patience to sit for (what must have been) such a long time to paint them.

Suddenly overwhelmed by a need to be just like his big brother, Gerard saw the empty wall and the clean paintbrushes and couldn't stop himself. He'd show Marcel he could paint, too, and then they could paint together!

When Nanny Arantxa found him, both the wall and his five-year-old body were vermilion. She made him clean it up, then dragged him back to the nursery and gave him the worst scolding he'd yet had. She couldn't believe how mischievous he was, she chided. He was forever getting into scrapes and doing things he shouldn't be doing; Master Marcel had never behaved like Master Gerard did.

Gerard wished he knew how Marcel managed to resist the temptation to be naughty; he felt it constantly tugging at his hand.

*

Gerard couldn't resent Marcel for his good behaviour—in fact, if he were honest, he envied his elder brother his ability to stay out of trouble—but he did resent the constant comparisons between them. It didn't just apply to Gerard's behaviour, but to his studies, too.

When he was nine Gerard, now fully breeched and with his own pony—albeit Marcel's old one, which he had outgrown—was proud to be allowed to join in with the twelve-year-old Marcel's lessons. Their tutor, Master Corretja, was patient and encouraging, and Gerard wanted very much to impress him the way Marcel did. Marcel seemed to pick things up so easily, without even trying: he completed his work in no time and it was always neat and well-presented.

They were studying the Ancient Greeks and, finally, Gerard's interest was piqued. He found the Spartans fascinating; not once during the lesson did Master Corretja have to recall his attention. Gerard applied himself diligently, was able to answer questions confidently and, when Master Corretja set them research to complete, decided that this would be his opportunity to impress.

He spent the afternoon, much to Nanny Arantxa's amazement, poring over books he had found in his father's library. He wrote pages and pages, barely noticing the ink splatters in his enthusiasm to complete his task. Even when Marcel put down his pen and retreated to his art room Gerard continued. It was only when the bell rang for dinner that he finished.

The next day, filled with an eagerness he had never before felt with regard to his studies, Gerard was first in the school room. He presented his work proudly, but his pride and excitement dissipated rapidly when Marcel presented his. It was beautifully written, perfectly illustrated and there wasn't a smudge in sight. The sense of disappointment Gerard felt had him chewing his lip to prevent himself crying and making things worse. He had tried his absolute hardest with that piece of work, and it still paled into insignificance next to Marcel's.

Master Corretja praised both boys and explained to Gerard that as Marcel was older it was inevitable their work would be different, but to Gerard it felt hollow. Not once did Master Corretja verbalise the comparison Gerard just knew he must be thinking—and, somehow, that made it even worse. His forbearing reassurance that he knew Gerard was trying his best made the gulf in their abilities even more noticeable. If he had been critical at least Gerard could have felt hard done by.

*

And so it continued. It wasn't like Gerard hated Marcel, because it was difficult to hate someone who was so willing to cover for you when you got into trouble (again) If he were honest, he was secretly in awe of his smart, reserved big brother. He felt a thrill of pride every time Marcel praised him for something, and couldn't wait until he was bigger so they could do more things together.

All the same, Gerard couldn't help feeling that everything he did, Marcel had done first. And better.

 

 _iii: Marcel_  
Any thoughts Marcel might have entertained about being on a more even footing with Gerard as they grew up were proven to be ill-founded. By the age of thirteen Gerard was well on the way to becoming the handsome, effortlessly charming aristocrat Marcel so wished he could be. Marcel was under no disillusions about his appearance; he knew that, while he was tall and lean and had enormous eyes his mama told him would make the girls melt, he wasn't conventionally handsome. Not to mention the fact his hair would _never_ stay in its ribbon and he was riddled with social awkwardness. Gerard, on the other hand, was muscular and perfectly proportioned, with a face that made the younger maids giggle and blush when he cast a smile in their direction, and a confident ease that showed he knew it. He was able to sweet-talk his way out of any scrape and, more often than not, sweet-talk Marcel into them.

*

Marcel didn't want to go into the village that day. He knew that Gerard regularly sneaked out to play with the village children, and admired his audacity, but had never quite dared to do it himself. As the Visconde and heir to the Marquésado he had been told repeatedly from an early age that certain behaviour was expected of him. He tried to do the right thing—all the time, he tried so hard—but all it took were a few artfully chosen words from Gerard and he was burying his sense of duty under a desperation to impress.

They crept out after lunch when everyone in the castle was at siesta, and Marcel couldn't help grinning at Gerard as they slipped through the gates to freedom. Kicking over the traces was intoxicating, but even better than that was the feeling of closeness and camaraderie it brought with his brother. The afternoon was thoroughly enjoyable. They paddled in the stream, raced across the green and ate bread and cheese with their hands. Marcel didn't even mind the fact that the village girls all ignored him in favour of batting their eyelashes at Gerard. Instead he concentrated on the sense of liberation being out of the castle gave him. He couldn't forget that he was the Visconde, but for a few hours he could pretend he wasn't, and he took pleasure from being an everyday sixteen-year-old for a few hours.

But, inevitably, they were caught as they crept back into the castle. By Nanny Arantxa, who had been kept on as their mama's companion but thought that she still ruled them as she had when they were in skirts. She was only halfway through her reprimand when Gerard held out the ribbons he had bought with a stream of flattery that had even her blushing and smiling, their misdemeanours forgotten. Marcel was slightly awed by his little brother's skill.

*

As Gerard grew older his transgressions continued and in February 1788, shortly after Gerard's eighteenth birthday, Marcel was called into his father's office. He racked his brains for a reason, but could think of nothing. It was only when his father started to speak that Marcel realised it was Gerard who was in trouble, not him. He felt a little awkward as his father described the altercations he'd had with local landowners recently: all local fathers intent on protecting their daughters' virtue. So, their father continued, he had arranged for them to go to Paris. All young men of good standing did the Grand Tour; it was just that Gerard would be taking his a little early to prevent any more unseemly tussles. Marcel, naturally, would be going along to keep Gerard company.

Marcel was able to read between the lines, and felt a degree of reluctance. He wasn't sure he wanted to be Gerard's minder—wasn't sure he was strong enough to keep him out of trouble—but his father was implacable; he would start making the arrangements for their travels as soon as he could.

'It will take some time to arrange, Marcel,' the Marqués reassured him. 'You won't be going immediately—there will be plenty of time to say your farewells and conclude any business you might have ongoing. And I am gratified to note that I have not had any similar complaints regarding your behaviour; you are upholding the family name impeccably.'

Marcel thought briefly of Rubén, the new stable hand, and hurriedly changed the subject lest his father probe too deeply into what Marcel was doing with the family name. It would be good for him to see something of the world, he assured his father, and there would be some wonderful opportunities for him to continue his painting.

*

Their father booked them a tour lasting four years, taking in all the biggest European cities, and in September of 1788 the brothers unpacked their trunks into suites at the Hôtel de Crillon. Within three weeks, Gerard had charmed himself into the most exclusive circles, and the invitations flooded in. The ease with which Gerard worked the society scene—all urbane smiles and confident introductions—left Marcel feeling like a hanger-on, blushing and stammering whenever anyone spoke to him. He watched Gerard introducing himself to another elegant stranger and determined to find some way to prove he could do _something_ better.

The trouble was, he had no idea what.

 

 _iv: Gerard_  
Gerard loved Paris. It was indolent and full of intrigue—just like him. His life had become an endless stream of balls, dinners and other indulgent entertainment: as the sons of a Marqués he and Marcel were fêted and fought over, and their social diaries were always full. Well, Gerard's was; Marcel was circumspect with his acceptance of invitations and only went out rarely, preferring to spend the other evenings in his rooms, painting. Gerard couldn't understand Marcel's attitude to social events, didn't like the way it made him feel frivolous and shallow, but was grateful for the fact that it meant he spent a lot of time without Big Brother looking reproachfully at him. He knew Marcel felt his responsibilities keenly, and considered himself obliged to report any misbehaviour to their father—so, the less Marcel knew, the better. And it wasn't like Gerard was abandoned or alone. A couple of weeks into their sojourn he met another younger son whose interests meshed very well with his own.

He rode home from an afternoon's sightseeing on the Champs Elysées (watching the ladies promenade was most definitely seeing the sights, he didn't care what Marcel said), swishing his crop idly at the trees he passed.

'I bet you can't hook a leaf—and only one leaf—from every tree!'

The laconic drawl came from a man sitting on a fidgety bay across the street from him. He looked about Gerard's age, was stocky and swarthy and had a belligerent jut to his chin.

'You're on!' Gerard had never been one to pass up on a wager; the more creative the better. He trotted smartly down the avenue, deftly hooking at leaves as he passed, cursing when one particular tree gave up half its foliage. The fluency of his swearing caused his opponent to nod appreciatively.

'I'm tempted to declare the wager void after that impressive display of profanity. Where in Spain are you from?

Iñigo Cervantes was the youngest son of the Conde de Oñate, and he too was in Paris for part of his Grand Tour. He was under the auspices of his eldest sister and her husband, whose chaperonage he found easy to escape. A sardonic Basque with a fierce temper and a strong head for Madeira, he hit it off with Gerard immediately and they soon became the talk of Paris as they dared each other into the wildest of pranks. They haunted the most elite coffee houses, and were never short of feminine company—although, as their reputations spread, the mamas began to keep too close an eye upon their daughters for anything other than the most discreet of liaisons.

Their younger-son status was another barrier in the eyes of discerning dowagers, and much of their time was spent bemoaning the unfairness of their situation. The gulf in their social standing was felt more keenly on the occasions that Marcel was persuaded to join them.

The ball that evening was the social event of the season, and even Marcel acknowledged that he needed to be seen there. As they climbed into the carriage, Gerard thought what a handsome trio they made. He felt a flash of envy at Marcel's height, and the way the knee breeches and frock coats that were essential for these events suited Marcel's lean frame better than his sturdier one. But, he told himself, no-one's cravat could outshine his, and his ponytail had been brushed until it shone.

When they arrived, Marcel's name was announced first, and Gerard couldn't help noticing the murmur of interest around the room. The reclusive Visconde de Castellbell was quite a catch, and Gerard was frustrated to see that the mamas who watched their daughters like hawks around Gerard and Iñigo practically threw them at Marcel.

As the evening progressed, the throwing of marriageable young ladies became alarmingly literal. The determined mamas would sail past once or twice, then stop, and give the blushing damsels a push until they tripped and Marcel was obliged to catch them. Gerard found this highly amusing the first time; Marcel didn't seem to have a clue what to do with the beauties that were paraded in front of him. He looked confused and flustered, stuttering awkward compliments through heated blushes, while Gerard took the ladies aside to woo them with his urbane charms. But somehow, to Gerard's disgust, Marcel's total lack of social skills only appeared to increase his appeal. It seemed especially iniquitous that he—suave, confident and charming—should be thrown over for his clumsy, uncomfortable older brother.  
After the third lady had declined his offer to dance with a confession that she was hoping that Marcel would ask her, Gerard retreated in disgust to the refreshment room. He spent the rest of the evening there wishing he hadn't bothered coming.

Later, out of breath and red-faced from dancing, Marcel came to get a drink. He had a cluster of hangers-on around him and seemed amazed that they could be interested in him at all. Gerard watched as he knocked several drinks off a side table with a stray elbow and stood on the Marquis St. Evrémonde's toe, and determined to find some way to prove he could do _something_ better.

The trouble was, he had no idea what.

 

 _v: Marcel_  
Marcel's days fell into a regular pattern: breakfast (with or without Gerard, depending on the night before), a ride through the Bois de Boulogne, a stroll through the city, lunch (with or without Gerard, depending on the night before), an afternoon in his studio and dinner. His favourite part of the day was his ride. He used it to observe and reflect, and it provided him with inspiration for his painting.

This particular morning, however, it provided him with a bruised backside and a new friend. His horse took exception to a piece of shrubbery and unseated him. Cursing under his breath, he stumbled to his feet, brushing off leaves and debris.

'It's a little too early for a picnic, no? I think your horse went that way. Hop on, I'll help you find him.'

Marcel stared in bewilderment, and the man smiled reassuringly as he held out a hand.

'Don't worry, I'm harmless. Which is more than can be said for your horse. Hang on!'

Balanced precariously on the horse's rump, Marcel concentrated on maintaining an upright position as the man set the horse trotting through the park.

'In case you're feeling awkward about holding on to someone whose name you don't even know, I should introduce myself. Tommy Robredo, Conde de Cardona. We can take the "at your service"' part as read, I think.'

Marcel smiled in genuine delight.

'Conde de Cardona? But my father's the Marqués de Castellbell, we're neighbours! What are you doing in Paris then, it's—oh, that's awfully forward of me, I'm sorry. I'm Marcel, by the way. I'm… not very good at this sort of thing.'

Tommy glanced over his shoulder, smiling when he saw Marcel's cheeks stained beetroot red.

'It's fine, you're a refreshing change, Marcel. I'm here for the horse fair; it's the best in Europe. Tell me, how is your father?'

They chatted amicably as they eventually tracked down Marcel's horse with a face full of roses. Once he was safely aboard, Tommy shook his hand in farewell and Marcel couldn't help blurting out an uncharacteristically forward request.

'Are you free tonight? May I take you to dinner? I mean, to say 'thank you', and everything. It would be nice to have a friend,' he added ingenuously.

Tommy agreed and over several more dinners their friendship grew. The Conde was handsome and dashing, and an excellent judge of horseflesh; he took it upon himself to equip Marcel with a carriage and horses befitting his station. As their friendship developed, Marcel discovered that he was also an unrepentant flirt.

Marcel had known for some time that he was not a ladies' man in any sense of the term, and the young ladies he had encountered had served only to confirm that. They had done nothing to make his heart beat faster—other than from stress—but Tommy could make him blush with a single quirked eyebrow, and Marcel enjoyed the flirtation in which they indulged. He was also gratified to note that even when the horse fair had packed up and moved on, Tommy had stayed in Paris. Gradually, though, Marcel grew to suspect that the reason the Conde was still in Paris was nothing to do with him. Instead it was due to the presence of another Conde altogether.

One evening, when Marcel arrived at the club for dinner, Tommy was deep in conversation. He looked up at his friend's arrival.

'Marcel, this is David. David Ferrer, Conde de Villapaterna. He's the Spanish envoy, he's from Valencia—isn't it a small world?'

Marcel's pleasure at meeting another Spaniard was tempered by his feelings of inadequacy. The Conde de Villapaterna was a quietly-spoken, intelligent diplomat who made Marcel feel like a lumbering, over-eager Great Dane. His conversation was earnest and intellectual, and Marcel found himself struggling to keep up.

'…but if the King carries on in this manner, the murmurings of discontent within the city will grow louder and more threatening. We should be looking for ways to prevent an escalation and smooth things over before they become untenable!...'

Giving up on the conversation, Marcel stared at David's hair and wondered how he managed to get it so shiny. Judging by the wistful looks Tommy kept casting in David's direction he was wondering a similar thing.

'Good Lord, David, are you still harping on at the same tired refrain? While your sensitivity is commendable, your naïve, idealistic approach to a situation that is nothing to do with you is beginning to bore me.'

Marcel and Tommy both looked sharply at the tall, lean figure throwing himself with careless elegance into the chair next to David.

'And who are these people? Are you picking up strays again?'

He nodded briskly at Marcel and Tommy, while David rolled his eyes at the new arrival then looked apologetically at the others.

'May I introduce you to Juan Carlos Ferrero, Marqués de Villena? We grew up together, and it's only through loyalty that he remains my best friend. Juan Carlos, this is Tommy Robredo, Conde de Cardona and Marcel Granollers, Visconde de Castellbells.'

The Marqués dismissed David's comments with an airy wave, 'Ignore him, he's prone to excessive emotion. I would say that it's nice to meet you both, but I would prefer to exercise caution until I can be sure whether or not it actually is.' Despite his tone his smile was genuine, and it was clear a bond of deep friendship ran beneath the bickering.

As far as Marcel could tell, the Marqués' hobby was delivering scathing put-downs in a tone of such supercilious condescension that Marcel could only gape in awe. While this was amusing when directed at others, it was less entertaining when directed at oneself. Consequently, Marcel found himself making a conscious effort to be unobtrusive as the disparate group of Spaniards found themselves unexpectedly bonding. However, Marcel told himself, Juan Carlos meant well, moreover his innate style and elegance was such that any sartorial suggestions he made should be acted upon with alacrity.

*

In fact, he was addressing such a suggestion with suitable alacrity when he bumped into Marc López. Quite literally. Removing a poorly-tied cravat one afternoon in the Café Procope, Marcel knocked a full cup from a stranger's hand, then bumped heads with him as they both bent to pick up the cup. The stranger was dark and compact, dressed in a simple, understated manner. As he blushed and scurried off to replace his drink, Juan Carlos drawled that it made sense that Marcel would be so desperate as to make a pass at someone who _worked_ for a living.

Marcel ignored him and followed the stranger to the bar.

'Hey, I'm really sorry about that. I've always been clumsy. Is your head all right? Will you get a lump on it, do you think? Can I get you another drink? Um, to say sorry? Oh, I—I'm Marcel, by the way. And I'm sorry. Did I mention that?'

It was only by biting on his lip that he got himself to stop talking, but he was rewarded by a smile and a hand on his arm.

'It's fine, honestly. I'm Marc and, yes please, I'd love another coffee. I can't work without it.'

Marcel ordered the drinks and they made small talk until Marcel, unable to remember the French word he was looking for, swore under his breath in Spanish. Marc's eyes lit up in delight.

'You're Spanish?' he asked in that language. When Marcel nodded he continued, 'Me too! I should have said, my name is López. My parents are from Barcelona, but they moved to France when I was three, so I've got French citizenship as well as Spanish.'

'Really? I'm Catalan, too! I'm here on the Grand Tour with my brother, Paris is beautiful.'

They chatted for a while longer, before López pulled out his watch and, with a gasp, declared he should have been back at work five minutes ago.

'I'll get strung up! It wouldn't do for Agent Simon to be without his dogsbody: he'd have to file his own correspondence!'

He thanked Marcel again for the coffee and hurried out. Marcel made his way back to his friends, ignoring their ribald teasing about his failed seduction. His blushes were spared by the arrival of Gerard, whose announcement that López got coffee there every day was overshadowed by his brightly-patterned waistcoat. This, in turn, deflected Juan Carlos' attentions from Marcel very nicely indeed.

They had only planned to stay in Paris for three months, but by May 1789 they had moved out of the hotel and taken their own apartments. Marcel knew they should have taken in both London and Geneva by now and been well on their way through Italy. However, he did not enjoy travelling, and Gerard seemed inclined to stay. It seemed as though Paris had become their new home, despite David's concerns.

 

 _vi: Gerard_  
As the months passed, it became clear that the Conde de Villapaterna had been right to worry. The mood in the city—indeed, in the whole of France, if the newspapers were to be believed—was deteriorating, and following the storming of the Bastille in July there was a wariness and uncertainty that permeated all aspects of Gerard's life. Letters had come from home recommending that he and Marcel return to Spain, but Gerard wasn't sure that such a step was necessary yet. He had the confidence of a twenty-two-year-old that everything would turn out all right and that his mama was worrying needlessly.

In order to placate her, though, he agreed to keep a lower profile; he and Iñigo reduced their extravagance and limited their social engagements. Instead of abandoning their nightly entertainments, the somewhat disparate group of Spaniards met daily at the Café Procope. There they kept abreast of the news through both the Conde de Villapaterna and López, who joined them when he could. As a result, Gerard found himself spending more evenings engaged in quieter pursuits with Marcel. He enjoyed the time they spent together, and he began to relax in his brother's company. In return, Marcel let slip some of his own insecurities, and Gerard was able to offer reassurance and advice.

After the third game of piquet in which Marcel's concentration was clearly elsewhere, Gerard took the cards from the table and said, 'Ask him.' He found Marcel's blustering attempts to feign ignorance mildly endearing, but the colour rising in his face told another story.

'Ask him! For dinner, or a drink, or… whatever it is you want to do. If you don't ask him, he'll never know.'

'But Gerard, I can't! He might already be in a relationship, he might not want to know—hell, he might not even, well. You know.'

Marcel tailed off, but Gerard knew what he meant. They had never talked about Marcel's inclinations, but Gerard liked to think he was a man of the world, and he knew that his brother… well, preferred men of the world.

'It worked with Rubén, didn't it?' Gerard gave a cheeky grin. He had long suspected that his brother's liaison with the stable boy was the main reason they had been despatched to Paris, but had kept his counsel. However, Marcel was obviously pining with unrequited love for the small, unassuming secretary and he, Gerard, could do something about it.

A few days later, Gerard had completed his research and, over dinner, shared his findings.

'Your civil servant said he worked for Agent Simon, yes? Well, I've been asking around, and Agent Gilles Simon is not a man to be messed with. He's the head of the Committee of General Security and by all accounts he's a jumped-up, toad-eating bully.'

Marcel paled. 'The Committee for General Security? No wonder he knew they're planning to arrest the aristocrats—he works for the agency that's in charge of organising it!'

'Hey, it's not so bad,' Gerard reassured Marcel. 'If his boss is such a tyrant he's more likely to need time to relax and unwind, no? More importantly, he's single and, when I introduced him to Mlle St. Just, he barely noticed her. I think you should talk to him. You never know.'

'But, the Committee? Is that a good idea, if they're all anti-nobility?'

'López didn't seem that radical, did he? And we're not French, so we should be safe. Anyway, if they ever come looking for us, it might be good to have someone in the Committee on our side. Put in a good word for us, as it were.'

Marcel's response was noncommittal, but Gerard caught him smiling to himself when the dessert was cleared away.

*

As the months passed and the arrests began, Gerard began to wonder if they were doing the right thing in staying. Iñigo claimed that, as younger sons—and Spanish younger sons, at that—they were safe, but Gerard was not so sure. López's stories of the increasing and arbitrary powers of the Committee were alarming, and aristocrats were being arrested for the most tenuous of reasons. His own parents had recently returned to Spain, he said—for the first time since they had emigrated to France—and he recommended that the rest of their small group did the same. He added, in a small voice, that he would do so himself if he didn't fear that his life would be endangered were he to resign.

'It sounds like a cliché, but I know too much, you see. I've seen confidential documents and been privy to classified conversations—I don't know if I could get out now, or if they'd find a way to stop me.'

'I wouldn't let them,' Marcel declared stoutly. 'I would put all my resources at your disposal to maintain your safety and help you return home. That is, should you wish to accept them.'

'So touching,' drawled Juan Carlos. 'What is this, the Prince and the Pauper? I wouldn't take any notice, López; his resources aren't half as impressive as he makes them sound.'

Gerard watched in amusement as Juan Carlos and Tommy continued teasing Marcel, but noticed that López was looking at his brother intently. He rather thought his efforts might be bearing fruit.

But all matchmaking plans were forgotten when the Marqués de Villena disappeared.

*

No-one thought too much of it when he didn't turn up at all one day. Juan Carlos was prone to fits of pique, and he had disagreed strongly with the Conde de Villapaterna the day before about how the Revolution—which had now acquired a name, become an entity about which people spoke in hushed tones and with capital letters—was being managed. He had been scathing of David's suggestions that they tried to mollify the Committee of General Security as much as possible—accede to their demands, follow their curfews, generally ruffle as few feathers as possible—and denounced the Revolutionaries as cowardly bullies. Their arguments had become heated, and everyone had been relieved when Juan Carlos announced he had business to attend to and left early. No-one liked to admit it, but his behaviour made them nervous.

It was only after three days had passed without sign of him that the Conde de Cardona began to express concern. It was not like Juan Carlos to hold a grudge for this long, he said. Normally when he lost his temper it blew over quickly, but David hadn't heard from him since he left and he had been quite worried when he headed to the embassy that morning. Tommy coloured slightly as he uttered this last, and Gerard regarded him contemplatively. His idle musing of how Tommy knew of this mental state when David had not yet arrived at the café was disturbed by that same man's entrance.

He was ashen-faced, and was holding a letter in front of him. It carried the Committee's seal, and David's voice shook as he read it out loud.

> _Juan Carlos Ferrero, Marqués de Villena—hereafter known as Citoyen Ferrero—has been arrested by the Committee of General Security for subversive and inflammatory remarks against the Revolution._
> 
> _Citoyen Ferrero is being held in the Temple prison, where he will remain until his trial._
> 
> _As a Spanish national, he has the right to appeal his arrest; this should be presented by his representative to Citoyen Gilles Simon, Chief Agent for the Committee, before the thirteenth day of July 1791._
> 
> _If no appeal is made, Citoyen Ferrero will be held indefinitely, until such time as his trial can be arranged._

Just like that, the Revolution became more than just a subject for lunchtime debate and speculation.

 

 _vii: Marcel_  
A month later, they were still trying to work out what to do. They no longer met at the Café Procope, as the increased paranoia that pervaded the city made them wonder if it was Juan Carlos's careless words there that had been overheard and reported. It was hard to trust anyone outside their circle—or even within it. Whilst Marcel was aware that Gerard carried a simmering resentment towards the fact that the others held (or would hold) titles and he would not, he also knew that Gerard was honest and trustworthy, and refused to let so much as an ounce of suspicion fall upon him. Less, however, was known about Iñigo. He had been more outspoken due to being a third son, and while Marcel could not truly believe it had been he who had denounced Juan Carlos, mistrust was a powerful motivator. When Tommy suggested that they continue their discussions on Juan Carlos's situation without the younger pair, Marcel had reluctantly agreed.

The new arrangements caused some friction between the brothers. Unsurprisingly, Gerard resented the insinuations being made against his friend but, while he balked at being excluded, he refused to ostracise Iñigo. He was offended and indignant, and Marcel was left feeling as though he had just forced Gerard to choose between his brother and his best friend… and lost. But he did his best to push this aside, told himself that he was doing this for Gerard's protection—if his brother wasn't involved, he would not be in danger.

Progress, however, was slow. They needed two things: to know where Juan Carlos was being kept, and to find some way to extricate him from wherever it was. Marcel was insistent that their plan should put Marc under no threat whatsoever—blushing at the grateful smile his insistence received—but, so far, that was as much plan as they had. Days passed with them feeling as though they were going round in circles, coming up with ideas only to quash them as unworkable. With the deadline date for appeal looming closer David became increasingly agitated at the thought of what might happen to his best friend, and his contributions were reduced to pacing and repeating that they should just go through the proper channels. As a result of this, Tommy's attentions were directed more towards soothing and calming David, so the brain work was left to Marcel and Marc.

Marcel was surprised by how much he enjoyed working through solutions. Marc was a receptive audience who never once laughed down Marcel's suggestions; he took them seriously, thought them through and arrived at practical reasons why they would not work; along with alternatives that meant they might. In this way, slowly, their plan began to take shape.

It took two weeks to fine-tune it to a point where they were ready to share it with David and Tommy; two weeks and the greatest sense of exhilaration Marcel had ever felt. He put that down to the tension of the situation but, if he was honest, spending so much time in close proximity to Marc was a contributory factor. Marc was intelligent and an enthusiastic co-conspirator; his smiles of encouragement spurred Marcel on. With Marc he was no longer clumsy and awkward; Marc made him feel like he could do anything.

By the start of the third week, he had even shyly offered to show Marc his studio. This came after Marc lifted Marcel's hand when they were poring over maps of the Temple and queried why it was covered in violet splodges; his curiosity gave Marcel the courage to share his work. It seemed that a combination of adrenaline and excitement had kick-started Marcel's artistic muse, and he was painting as he never had before. Currently he was working on getting the detail right with flowers; his studio was filled with bowls of them as he honed his technique for capturing their delicate beauty. Marc was effusive in his admiration of Marcel's skill… until his hay fever necessitated the viewing's being cut short.

As the two of them locked the studio behind them, Tommy and David arrived in the hall, with David's hair in a state of disarray that Marcel was tempted to attribute to having come straight from a bedroom. Whose bedroom it was became apparent to Marcel when he noticed exactly where Tommy's hand was resting. On seeing Marcel's raised eyebrow, Tommy whipped his hand back and stepped away from David, retaliating with an innuendo-laden comment about showing Marc his etchings. Unperturbed, Marc rested a hand on Marcel's arm and agreed that Marcel was especially talented, then silenced everyone's spluttering with the announcement that their plan was completed and ready, and if they could behave like adults he would share it.

Over the next few hours the plan was gone over with a fine-tooth comb, and eventually everyone was satisfied it would be successful. Tommy had misgivings over its audacity, but Marc was insistent that Marcel had thought everything through fully and made contingencies for every eventuality. David—desperate to believe that they could rescue his friend, unable to believe they were finally able to do something— questioned the veracity of their information, but Marcel was insistent that Marc had organised everything perfectly. He had worked tirelessly and at not inconsiderable danger to himself to gain access to Citoyen Simon's paperwork, Marcel said, and he knew that the plans Marc had stolen were the right ones.

'Would you like me to send the notice of your engagement to La Gazette, or will you be doing that yourselves?'

Tommy smirked at the earnest way Marcel and Marc each leapt to the defence of the other; they both stammered and blushed, carefully not looking at each other. David dug his elbow into Tommy's ribs.

'Leave them alone! We're talking about the plan, be quiet and pay attention! Marc, are you sure your source in the Temple is trustworthy?'

Tommy gave David a chastened look, and was silent as Marc reassured them that the Abbé Gasquet was upright and dependable: as the Temple's priest he had borne witness to one atrocity too many. He had never wanted to join the church in the first place, Marc went on, but as a younger son he had been forced into it. He was disillusioned with the Revolution, and was willing to do his bit in their stand against it.

Finally, everyone was satisfied. They had all familiarised themselves with their roles in the plan, gone over it time and time again until they could recite it flawlessly; now the hard part started.

Now, they had to wait.

*

On Tuesday 12th July, Marcel woke early. Actually, waking early was inaccurate, as that implied sleeping, and he was pretty sure he hadn't done any of that. He felt a thrill as he donned his disguise… and a vague sense of disgust when he caught sight of himself in the mirror. This was a good thing, he reassured himself: those who collected the bodies from the Place de la Grève were not meant to look appealing. Unable to eat due to nervous excitement, he tried to soothe himself by sketching flowers until Marc arrived.

The first part of the plan went off without a hitch. They picked up the pony and trap Tommy had organised for them and loaded it with empty wooden boxes. Despite Marcel's misgivings, it made the journey without falling apart, even with the extra weight of decapitated bodies in three of the four makeshift coffins. Marcel was particularly proud of the bawdy banter with which he had engaged the Captain of the Revolutionary Guard as the lackeys had thrown the bodies into his cart, and was filled with confidence as they trotted down a dingy side-street to a back entrance of the Temple Prison.

It was only when they had stopped and Marc had slipped inside that the nerves kicked in. Marcel had made him go over the plan again all the way from the Place de la Grève, knew that Marc knew exactly what to do—and, more importantly, how to keep himself safe—but that didn't stop him worrying. He hated waiting; he had never been blessed with patience. Stepping down from the cart, he paced around it, running through the plan in his head, trying to work out exactly what Marc would be doing now. Abbé Gasquet would be taking Juan Carlos to confession at eleven a.m.—which was five minutes ago, now. But, instead of leading him to the chapel, he would sneak him through the corridors to meet up with Marc, who would bring him outside. But why weren't they out yet? Marcel paced harder, plucking at his pockets, scrunching at the discarded sketches he found inside.

Finally, when he thought he could wait no longer, the door opened a crack and Marc's head peered out.

'I'm sorry,' he hissed, 'but someone didn't want to be rescued!'

He dragged a grumbling Juan Carlos out behind him and pointed ruefully to his blossoming black eye. Juan Carlos looked unrepentant.

'How was I supposed to know he'd be covered with fake smallpox?' he protested. 'Of _course_ I put up a fight!'

Marcel ignored him and asked Marc if everything had gone according to plan.

'It went like clockwork,' Marc reassured him. 'Well, apart from the fact that we failed to provide our rescuee with the first class service he required. So remiss of us!'

Further gratitude was expressed by the rescued party when he saw how he was travelling.

'I have to get in a coffin? Upon which you will put other coffins? Containing headless corpses?'

'I'll tell them you prefer the Guillotine, shall I? You can just pop back in and tell them you made a mistake, you didn't want to be rescued after all?'

His sarcasm earned a withering look from Juan Carlos, and for three livres Marcel would have left the ungrateful wretch behind. He slammed the lid of the box down with extra force and drove the cart towards the nearest gate, and freedom.

As they reached the Barrière de Bercy, Marcel's heart sank. The gate was manned by Sergeant Llodra, the most callous and fervent of the revolutionary guards. His reputation was well-known: this would test their plan to its limit. They pulled up alongside the checkpoint, and Marcel handed Llodra their papers. He daren't look at Marc, crouched in the back of the cart, and instead concentrated on looking as revoltingly unappealing as possible.

'This says you've got aristos in the back. Let me see,' said Llodra, approaching the cart with a sneer

'Huh? You want to see dead bodies? Why would you want to see dead bodies?' Marcel played as idiotic as he possibly could, and was rewarded by Llodra thrusting the tip of his sword under Marcel's chin.

'So I know they are really dead, you contemptible imbecile! And so I can spit down their necks.'

Marcel nodded, making his eyes wide with apparent terror, and Llodra sauntered to the back of the cart. He got a soldier to rip off the lid of the first box and, true to his word, lifted the body and spat down its neck. He was just ordering the soldier to start on the second when Marc shuffled forward and reached out to him.

'Hello. I'm Pierre. You're pretty,' he mumbled, leering convincingly at Llodra.

Marcel suppressed a shudder: Llodra was anything but pretty, and suddenly he was glad Marc had insisted on taking the role of the libidinous simpleton. Marc rubbed his cheek against the Sergeant's shoulder. Sergeant Llodra's lip curled in disgust, and he slapped Marc's face with the flat of his sword.

'Get off me, you vile creature, or I'll decapitate you to match your cargo!'

'Sorry, sir,' Marcel drawled, 'he's ever so slow, and he don't get out much. 'Specially not since he got the pox. He don't mean no harm, though, honest.'

'The pox?' Llodra stepped back from the cart in horror. 'Get out, man! Get out, before you spread it to the rest of the city!'

Inspection forgotten, Llodra waved for the gates to be opened, and the cart rumbled through.

Half an hour later they reached the rendezvous point. David and Tommy were waiting with the horses and two overnight bags, and while Tommy mocked Marcel and Marc's disguises David helped Juan Carlos out of the box. The relief with which he embraced his old friend was palpable; his unwillingness to let go had Tommy narrowing his eyes at the Marqués de Villena. Marcel stifled a grin, only to feel the same expression settling upon his own face when Juan Carlos turned to embrace Marc in gratitude for his rescue. Eventually Juan Carlos and Tommy mounted the horses and headed off towards Montpellier, where David had arranged for a boat to be waiting. Marcel and Marc used the supplies David had brought to clean up and return their appearance to normal.

Giddy with relief and exhilaration, they headed back to Paris. Marcel felt a sense of invincibility wash over him. They had done it! And, if it made Marc smile at him like that, flushed with success and pride, he thought he might like to do it again.

He only wished Gerard could have seen him.


	2. Chapter 2

_viii: Gerard_  
Paris was rife with speculation. Throughout the city there was talk of little but the daring rescue of the Conde de Villena, from within the bowels of the Temple, no less! It wasn't until a few days after the escape that word got out about the small, crumpled piece of paper found outside one of the rear entrances to the prison. Everyone was sure it had been left deliberately, but no-one knew what it meant. It contained nothing more than a sketch of a small, purple wayside flower—but on its discovery the mysterious rescuer was given a name.

The Violet Periwinkle.

Gerard was as intrigued as the rest of Paris: he and Iñigo spent hours trying to work out how on earth someone had been smuggled out of the city under the noses of the guards. Logically, suspicion initially fell on Marcel and his friends. They were the ones who had the greatest interest in getting Juan Carlos out of Paris. They were the ones who had been meeting in secret. They were the ones who had excluded Gerard and made him feel like the useless little brother. Again. But, as Iñigo pointed out, the strength of Gerard's feelings on the last of those reasons probably clouded his judgement with regard to the first two. And, besides, anyone less Periwinkle-like than Gerard's gormless older brother Iñigo was hard-pushed to imagine.

Gerard supposed Iñigo was right; it did seem unlikely, when he thought about it. After all, Marcel did not seem to be behaving any differently. Gerard didn't really know how the Violet Periwinkle _should_ act, but he thought it would probably involve a bit more mysterious dashing about the city, and a lot less sitting around painting. He and Marcel still met at mealtimes—mealtimes permeated with an awkwardness and discomfort neither of them quite knew how to overcome—and they still discussed the news over coffee, but not once did Marcel soften with regard to letting Gerard join in his daily meetings with the other Spaniards.

Instead, Gerard and Iñigo took to doing a little detective work of their own. They kept their ears to the ground, their noses inside newspapers and their hands off the ladies… but got nowhere, other than a throwaway comment from Marcel approving of Gerard's new, mature attitude. Iñigo mocked him for the pride he felt at this, but he ignored him.

As the weeks became months there were more rescues, and they became more audacious in nature. It was almost as if the Periwinkle were taunting the Revolutionaries; if what Gerard heard was true, the messages the Periwinkle was leaving were growing increasingly inflammatory. At the last rescue, the note had been discovered in the office of Citoyen Simon himself; it allegedly read _'Where is the Marquis de St. Cyr, Citoyen Simon? Wrong! Think again!'_ Gerard would have loved to have seen the reaction of the Head of the Committee of General Security when he found it at his desk.

He couldn't help noticing, though, that the rescues had a tendency to coincide with occasions when the Conde de Cardona was out of Paris for a few days. Gerard tentatively raised this with Marcel, but his careless response ('oh, Tommy's probably organising things for him and the Conde de Villapaterna to go home') emphasised to Gerard that his brother could not have been implicated—even the Periwinkle would have flinched at such direct questioning, surely? Also, on the very afternoon the most recent rescue took place, Gerard had seen Marcel taking Mme Bartoli, the famous opera singer, out of the city for a picnic. To Gerard, this confirmed that there was no way his brother could be involved: not only did he have an alibi but, judging by the voracious way she was staring at him, he would be rather too busy to come up with complicated, Periwinkle-style plans.

When it became clear that no-one whatsoever had any believable theory as to who the Periwinkle could be, Iñigo and Gerard came up with an audacious plan of their own. At the few soirées they still attended, they started 'accidentally' dropping hints that could lead people (were they so inclined) to consider that the Periwinkle might be traced to two dashing young Spaniards. They were gratified to note how quickly these rumours spread, and spent several weeks basking in the glow of being fêted celebrities and the female attention that came along with this.

They were on their way home from one of these particularly enjoyable evenings when they heard it: the unmistakeable sound of a fist hitting flesh. It was coming from a dingy alleyway to their left and, having persuaded himself by his own hype, Gerard raised an enquiring, 'should we investigate?' eyebrow at Iñigo. At the nod he received in return they crept towards the sound. The street lamps barely penetrated the gloom of the alleyway, but the light they gave was enough to show two shadowy figures partway down. One was significantly bigger than the other. He wore a tricolour cockade and was dressed in a familiar style whose significance eluded Gerard right now, and he was clearly threatening the smaller man between punches.

Gerard's French wasn't good enough to understand exactly what was being said—and neither were his ears—but he was able to make out the words 'Simon', 'traitor' and 'death'. The victim was defiant and spat something back, which earned him a punch in the solar plexus that knocked him to the ground. Iñigo looked at Gerard and they ran forward, yelling enthusiastically. Luckily, they had the advantage of surprise and speed, and were able to take out the assailant with comparative ease, although their technique would have benefitted from a degree of polish. While the attacker lay on the ground, groaning and clutching his head, Gerard and Iñigo helped the victim up and out of the alleyway, hastening to put as much distance between them and the assailant as they could.

It was only when they reached a better-lit street that they realised the man they had rescued was Marc López.

He had a split lip and his cheek was badly bruised, but he nodded curtly to their 'Are you all right?' and refused to divulge anything about what had happened. He would tell them neither why he was there nor what his assailant was after, and grew fierce in his insistence that they say nothing to anyone. Anyone at all.

When they reached his lodgings, he reminded them again of their promise to keep quiet, but then softened and thanked them for their assistance. Without them, he said, he might not have made it out of that alleyway. They had saved him, and for that he was truly grateful. With that, he went inside, leaving Gerard feeling mildly heroic.

He only wished Marcel could have seen him.

 _ix: Marcel_  
Marcel couldn't help noticing that Marc had been behaving strangely in recent weeks. It had started shortly after he had turned up at a meeting with a gash on his cheek which, when Marcel had asked what on earth had happened, he dismissed and accredited to walking into a carriage door. Ever since, he had been quiet and withdrawn, and this worried Marcel.

He wondered if it was his fault, if he had done something to upset Marc, but he couldn't think what and, when he asked Marc about it, was told that he hadn't. Marcel wasn't sure, though, if this made things better or worse.

Nevertheless, there were still aristocrats who needed rescuing, and their meetings continued. The adrenaline rush they had got from freeing Juan Carlos had sparked a thirst for adventure in all of them, and when their second attempt had been a success the thrill had become almost addictive. They were now planning their eighth rescue, but with the increase in diligence from the Committee the stress was beginning to show. Tempers were fraying around the edges; not least since the Abbé Gasquet, their Temple insider, had unexpectedly run off to Geneva with Wawrinka, the Swiss Ambassador. Though Marc's face had more or less healed, the dark circles beneath his eyes were becoming more pronounced, and he said little as Marcel and David bickered about the best way to conceal their escape.

'It's insane to use the same tactic twice!'

'But it worked! No guards would ever dare question Mme Bartoli's reasons for leaving the city and, um, she keeps hinting that she would like another date, so I say we should do it again.'

'But, Marcel, the guards are all so much more vigilant now. They're searching every carriage. Tommy's plan is much better, it means that they wouldn't come near ours!'

'How can you be so sure? It makes much more sense to stick with something that's been proven to work.'

'David's right, Marcel, your plan would never work a second time. They're checking everything that leaves the city; we could never get away with smuggling people out in a picnic basket again. We go with Tommy's plan; we'll reconvene tomorrow to finalise everything.'

Marc's interjection was firm and his departure abrupt; Marcel cast a hurt look at his back as he left.

*

A few days later, Marcel tried again. Marc had arrived before the others so that they could run through the plan together, but Marcel let Marc speak and just watched him. He seemed utterly exhausted, and Marcel could keep quiet no longer.

'Marc, please tell me what's wrong.'

Marc looked up, and for a moment there was a vulnerability in his eyes. It was soon gone, though, and he looked away as he spoke.

'I'm fine, Marcel. It's fine.'

'You're not fine, Marc. You look like you're about to collapse! I think we expect too much of you, I think maybe you should ease off a little, leave it to us a bit more.'

'No!' Marc's response was vehement. 'No, it's fine! I don't need to ease off, it's not too much, I'm—why, what have you heard?'

'Nothing, I've heard nothing, it's just …with your job, and everything. I want—I want you to be safe.'

Marcel kicked himself for sounding so earnest, but couldn't help reaching out a hand to Marc's arm. Marc's expression softened, and he covered Marcel's hand with his own.

'It's OK, Marcel. It's tough on all of us. The Committee are much more vigilant—which is why you need me. I'm careful, I promise. I'm not going to do anything stupid.'

He looked directly at Marcel as he spoke, and Marcel was just wondering if it would be thoroughly inappropriate to kiss him when Gerard walked in. Marcel jumped back, his hand tugging nervously at his ponytail, and smiled awkwardly at his brother. Not for the first time, Marcel wished he could involve Gerard in all of this. They made uncomfortable small talk for a while, Marc watching them both with a strange expression; it was almost a relief to hear the doorbell. When David's and Tommy's names were announced, Gerard's eyes narrowed; he spun on his heel and left without another word.

*

On the day of the rescue, Marcel was more nervous than usual. His worries and tension over both Marc and the Committee made his fingers fumble with his buttons as he dressed in his disguise. His nose wrinkled at the smell of stale wine permeating his clothing, and he mentally congratulated David for his attention to detail.

He and Marc drove to the Temple in silence, neither quite knowing what to say. Marcel wanted to ask Marc about Gerard, why Marc seemed so wary of him recently, but didn't quite know how. He told Marc that the letters from home had become more frequent, more insistent; Marc looked him in the eye and said that they should all get out. Now, while they still could. Then for the first time in days, Marc talked to him properly. He told Marcel that with each rescue their risk increased tenfold, that anyone who could get out of Paris should do so.

'The Committee are sure they're closing in on the Periwinkle, Marcel. It's all they're focussing on at the moment, Citoyen Simon is like a man obsessed. I'm doing what I can to throw them off the scent, but I'm only one man. I can't do it all.'

Marcel wasn't sure what had triggered Marc's confidences, nor did he know how he felt about them. He suspected that Marc was right; they had ridden their luck for a long time, they should probably get out while they could. But, at the same time, he was reluctant to give up his exciting alter-ego. Being the Periwinkle made him feel like he was someone, and he didn't want to go back to being no-one. Nor did he want to leave Marc behind. As they approached the Temple, he squeezed Marc's hand and promised him that he would think about it. After this rescue, he would talk to the others and see what they thought.

The cart they were driving had three empty wine barrels amongst the full ones stacked in the back, and when the Comte de Tournay and his family were smuggled out of the Temple, they were hidden in them. Disguised as a filthy wine merchant low on his luck, Marcel drove the cart to the Barrière de Bercy and handed his papers to Sergeant Llodra.

Of course, he disbelieved Marcel's story that he was disposing of his stores as they had been contaminated. Having inspected Marcel's papers, he demanded to sample the wine in the barrels. He stuck his dagger through the seals of three of them, tasting the wine from his fingers until he realised that it did taste bad. A jovial yet grimy Marc, who had jumped down from the cart to collect the papers and deposit the Periwinkle's note, informed him that the contaminant was horse urine. Sergeant Llodra managed to splutter the order to open the gates between bouts of vomiting, and the barrels at the bottom remained untouched.

As the gates were opening, two men rode up. Marcel froze in horror: it was Gerard and Iñigo. What on earth were they doing here? Marcel tugged nervously on his ponytail, regretting this as soon as he felt the greasy wig he was wearing as part of his disguise, and took great care not to make eye contact as he drove off through the half-open gates.

He didn't notice the widening of Gerard's eyes, nor the note that Iñigo was stealing from Llodra's papers.

Once the de Tournays had ridden off towards the port with David and Tommy, Marcel and Marc helped each other out of their disguises. Marcel was pulling their clean clothes out of the final barrel when he saw it—a small, scrunched-up piece of paper that had fallen to the bottom. Unthinking, he opened it out; as he read it, he wished he hadn't.

>   
>  _Citoyen Lopez,_
> 
> _I have been informed that you might be in possession of valuable information concerning the identity of the scourge of the Republic known as the Violet Periwinkle._
> 
> _The agent with whom you were previously working was unfortunately indisposed before he was able to obtain this information from you; I assure you that this will not happen a second time._
> 
> _I remind you that it is your duty as a member of the Committee to serve its interests at all times, and look forward to receving the report of your investigation tomorrow at noon._
> 
> _If the information you provide us leads, as we hope, to the arrest and execution of the Violet Periwinkle and his team of traitors your reward will be significant._
> 
> _If you refuse to co-operate, the consequences will be severe._
> 
> _Gilles Simon, Chief Agent for the Committee of General Security._

It was dated two days ago. Forcing himself to act naturally, he scrunched it up and dropped it back where he had found it, but his mind was racing.

What had Marc said?

 

 _x: Gerard_  
Breaking into Marcel's studio made him feel as if he was five again. Only this time, there would be no painting on the walls. As part of their detective work, he and Iñigo had taken to lurking around the city gates: to watch those coming and going and trying to pick up clues. However, these sorties had proven wholly fruitless. Until today.

He had felt a niggling suspicion since he saw the behaviour of the wine merchant at the Barrière de Bercy. Why would anyone take contaminated wine with them? Why not just pour it into the gutter? The suspicion had been compounded when he saw the note Iñigo had sneaked from under Sergeant Llodra's papers. Gerard was sure the wine merchant was the Violet Periwinkle, and the familiar nervous tug at his ponytail was a suggestion to his identity that Gerard could not ignore. What he was searching for now was irrefutable proof.

He set Iñigo looking through the pile of canvases stacked against the wall and hurried to the table, hunting for Marcel's sketchbook. Iñigo's innuendo-laden commentary about how all the canvases appeared to be of Marc barely registered as Gerard flipped the pages, not really sure what he was looking for…

…until he found it.

Reaching blindly behind him for the chair, he fell into it with a thud and croaked at Iñigo to pass him the note. Side by side, the images were identical.

His brother was the Violet Periwinkle.

If he were honest, he had known when he'd recognised the handwriting on the note, but the identical sketches proved it. Iñigo leaned over his shoulder and gasped.

'Mother of God, Gerard—it's your brother. It really is your brother!'

Gerard nodded dumbly, his thoughts a whirl. His brother and his friends had rescued half of Paris, and he and Iñigo had been excluded. For a moment, he allowed himself to dwell on the unfairness of being left out again, felt a sharp yearning to have been involved himself, felt his admiration of Marcel tempered by a childish streak of jealousy. But then, suddenly, he recalled the night they had rescued Marc. That wasn't just a random mugging. The reason the uniform was familiar was because it was the one Marc wore to work every day, and suddenly the references to Citoyen Simon and treachery made sense. The Committee must know that Marc was part of the League of the Periwinkle: they were threatening him for information. But why was he so insistent that they didn't tell Marcel? Unless…

Gerard's mind raced on ahead, and he turned to Iñigo, who was still muttering in amazement that the hero of Paris was Gerard's ungainly brother.

'I think they know about Marc. Or at least suspect him—that's why the Committee goon was threatening him that night. If they know about Marc, what has he told them about Marcel? What if he's spying for them? We need to find him, Iñigo. We need to tell him what we know.'

Ripping the page from the sketchbook and shoving it and the note in his pocket, Gerard darted from the room. Iñigo followed him eagerly, panting excitedly about how they were going to be heroes, how they were going to help the Periwinkle, how amazing all this was.

Gerard ignored him. All he could think about was how he needed to find his brother.

*

For the next couple of hours Gerard felt as though he was playing the lead role in an elaborate farce as he chased around Paris. No wonder the French called the Violet Periwinkle so elusive; Gerard thought he stood better chance of locating a needle in a haystack. He and Iñigo visited everywhere they could think of that Marcel might be, but with no luck. His alarm grew with every dead end, as did his frustration with Iñigo, who seemed to be treating this as a great adventure and not taking it seriously at all. Gerard was almost giddy with relief when at last he found Tommy strolling back to his rooms.

'Tommy! Have you seen Marcel, he's—they've found—it's Marc, it's—oh God, I need to find him!'

'What? Come inside, man, don't make a scene on the doorstep!' Tommy led them both inside, not saying another word until they were in the drawing room. 'Now, sit down, catch your breath and explain. Calmly.'

Gerard wasn't sure that he quite managed the last part of the instruction, but he told Tommy everything he knew. The way Tommy's face paled confirmed Gerard's suspicions, and he kicked himself at the flash of excitement he felt at the thought that, finally, he might be involved in something exciting and dangerous.

Tommy paced the room, thinking out loud, ticking things off on his fingers.

'We know the Committee are pressuring Marc, but we don't know at this moment whose side he is actually on. It would be safest to assume it's not ours, which means we are all potentially in danger. Our first priority is to find Marcel, let him know what's happened, and then get everyone out of France as soon as we can.'

He stopped at the desk and dashed off a note as he spoke.

'Iñigo, take this to the Spanish consulate and give it to the Conde de Villapaterna. Gerard, we will go and find Marcel. We shall meet back here in an hour.'

Gerard's relief at the calm sense of purpose with which Tommy was giving orders was swiftly quashed when the door flew open with a bang, and Marc rushed in, grimy and dishevelled.

'They've got him! They've got Marcel!'

*

Once again, Gerard was grateful for Tommy's calm common sense as, were they alone, he would have punched Marc in the teeth and damn the consequences. Instead, Tommy held him back and coldly told Marc to explain. He listened carefully, fingers steepled under his chin as Marc stammered his tale. His anxiety and emotion were evident as he spoke and, gradually, Tommy's expression softened.

'I knew I should have got out when I could! Since Robespierre ordered Simon to hunt down the Periwinkle he's been a man possessed. He had every agent working on it around the clock, and set investigations on everyone. Including me,' he added bitterly.

'I should have been more careful, but I didn't realise they were following me! They knew I kept going to the Temple, started tailing me—and when they realised I was meeting with Marcel they brought me in for questioning.'

He paused momentarily before the last word and Gerard shuddered, having seen evidence of the form this 'questioning' might have taken.

'I had to let them think I was on their side,' Marc continued. 'It was the only way to keep going. If they thought I was going to give them information, they would leave us in peace to continue. I gave them false leads to keep them off the scent but, eventually, they became more demanding. And, when I wouldn't tell them any more, they took matters into their own hands.'

Marc spoke simply, his voice cracking with strain and emotion, and as he gesticulated for emphasis Gerard noticed something beneath his cuff. He caught Marc's hand and pushed his sleeve up. The brand he revealed was raw and new; Marc hissed in pain, but wouldn't meet his eye.

'They did that yesterday. They beat me, too, to get me to talk. I didn't. I didn't betray him—I would _never_ betray him—but they got us anyway. They picked us up on our way back into the city yesterday. The only way I got out was to convince them I was still on their side and tell them where you all met. Benneteau and Chardy are on their way to your place now,' he nodded at Gerard, 'I managed to slip away in the mob in the Place de la Concorde.'

Silently, Tommy gestured to Marc to turn and remove his shirt. The weals on his back made Gerard gasp, but Tommy nodded.

'Right. We don't have much time.'

When Iñigo returned with David they had started formulating their plan. Gerard was simultaneously thrilled that they were taking his suggestions seriously and filled with fear that they wouldn’t work. Tommy quickly filled David in on the events that had transpired, and they worked on into the night.

The League of the Violet Periwinkle was about to embark upon its most audacious rescue attempt yet.

 

 _xi: Marcel_  
For what felt like the hundredth time Marcel kicked himself for being so stupid. And then he kicked at the rat who was nibbling experimentally at his toes. He'd been in the Temple for three days, with the realisation slowly dawning that the only way he'd be leaving was in a tumbril.

They had been caught on their way back into Paris. Citoyen Simon himself had been waiting for them, and he'd taken great joy in hauling them off to the Temple. But the worst part had come later, when they were taken to be interrogated.

And Marc had been freed.

The suspicions Marcel had been harbouring since reading the memo were confirmed in a gut-wrenching fashion as Citoyen Simon removed Marc's shackles and shook his hand, thanking him for his assistance.

'Of all the gullible, lovesick idiots,' Marcel muttered disconsolately to the rat who was now sniffing at his thigh, 'Marcel Granollers, Visconde de Castellbell, is the most gullible.'

The rat, clearly unmoved by despair, continued its experimental nibbling; this time of Marcel's fingers.

'I should have known it was a ruse. Should have known no-one would really like me like that. I'm not Gerard, after all—oh God, Gerard. What have I done to Gerard?'

His thoughts were curtailed by the sound of a key turning in the lock. This was accompanied by the sound of feet shuffling outside, as if someone was reluctant to enter; Marcel looked up in expectation of seeing Tommy and David being flung across the threshold to join him. It was only a matter of time, he thought; there was no way Marc would miss the opportunity to incriminate them, too. For the first time, Marcel was wholly grateful to Tommy for insisting they excluded Gerard: at least he was safe.

But it wasn't Tommy. Or David. The apology died on Marcel's lips as the door swung open and Marc came in.

'Get up.'

Marc's voice was as cold as the stone walls around them, and Marcel felt his heart twist. Marc must truly despise him if he'd come to gloat like this.

'Why? Where are we going?'

Marcel tried to sound belligerent, but he wasn't sure he quite managed it. He was painfully aware that Gerard would have had an insolent comment on the tip of his tongue; all Marcel felt was a hollow longing at the sound of Marc's voice.

'Simon wants to ask you some questions, come on.' Marc yanked at Marcel's chains and pushed him towards the door.

As Marc led him through the maze of dingy corridors, Marcel couldn't help blurting the question he'd asked himself so many times over the last seventy-two hours.

'Why, Marc? Why? I trusted you! I thought we were doing something wonderful—I thought _you_ were wonderful. I—I loved you.'

Marc stumbled slightly, then stopped abruptly and blindfolded Marcel.

'Prisoners shouldn't be talking. Be quiet.' He took hold of Marcel's shackles, and the two of them walked on in silence.

When he heard a door open, Marcel braced himself for the sound of Simon's voice braying in triumph, but it never came. Instead, he felt… fresh air? He jerked his head round, trying to work out what was happening, but the blindfold was thick and Marc kept him moving. He was helped up into a cart, where he was pushed down to the floor and covered with a foul-smelling sheet.

'Keep down, and don't move.'

He strained his ears for clues, but the low murmurs of conversation were drowned out by the clop of hooves as the cart lurched forward. Was this it? Was he being taken to meet Mme la Guillotine already? With a sense of urgency he felt around him, trying desperately to work out what was happening. He felt wooden furniture, and… something unpleasant and squishy, but there were no signs of other victims in the cart.

'Keep _down!_ '

The voice hissed loudly in Marcel's ear and a firm pressure on his shoulder ensured that he obeyed.

When the cart drew to a halt he braced himself for the worst.

'What have we here, then?'

As expected, it was Sergeant Llodra's unmistakeable grating tones that broke the silence. But the next voice was definitely not one he'd expected to hear.

'Oh, nothing much, young man—just an old lady moving back to the country. I don't feel safe in the city any more, I want to get back to my daughter and her family. My grandson here has the plague, and I can't be nursing him myself. I can knit for them, instead!'

For the first time in three days, Marcel felt a flicker of hope. Either he was hallucinating from desperation, or… that was Gerard. Marcel recalled how Gerard used to imitate their abuela, and was sure the old lady was his brother.

'Really, citoyenne? Well, you won't mind me looking at what you've got hidden under there, then—although keep that plague-ridden scum away from me!'

'Go ahead, young man, if you want to see my dirty laundry! I haven't got the Periwinkle under there, if that's what you're thinking. If I found him, I'd be Periwinkling him good and proper, if you know what I mean.'

The old lady gave a throaty cackle, and Marcel heard Llodra's response clearly as he drew closer.

'You'd have a job, he's in the Temple! Visits Mme la Guillotine on Thursday, so I hear. Makes my life a whole lot easier,' and, indeed, his searching of the cart was brief and half-hearted. He stabbed a few bundles and muttered something to the guard, and the cart rolled off again.

The cart gathered speed as the sounds of the city fell away; before long he heard a joyous whooping accompanied by an excited shout.

'Stay down, Marci—not long now, we'll tell you when it's safe to come out!'

He'd not heard that name since he was sixteen; when he closed his eyes he felt tears prickle the backs of his eyelids.

When the cart stopped and Marcel's blindfold was removed, Gerard was staring at him, a disbelieving grin cleaving his face. His wig was filthy, and his dress was stained with all sorts of things that Marcel preferred not to contemplate too closely—the tricoteuse disguise was complete, right down to the heap of knitting beside him.

'Jerry? Is that you?'

Marcel's dazed question was answered with a fierce hug that squeezed the breath out of him and left his shoulder slightly damp. Iñigo, his plague buboes now removed, shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot as the brothers embraced.

'You were—'

'I can't believe you—'

They both spoke at the same time, but whatever it was they were about to say was cut off by the sound of approaching hoofbeats. Then Gerard was shoved aside by a small whirlwind who threw himself at Marcel, repeating, 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I had to do it, I love you, I'm sorry' in between kisses.

A firm cough interrupted his reunion with Marc.

'Look, I don't mean to be rude, but you two will have plenty of time to do that later. We have rather more pressing matters to which to attend.' Still, Tommy's smile was broad and he hugged Marcel himself.

One of those more pressing matters involved Marcel's stomach, which had not been filled in three days. While David and Tommy made everything ready for the next stage of their escape, Iñigo handed round baguettes. Marc cleaned Marcel's abrasions as he ate; once the first sandwich was gone Marcel turned to Gerard.

'So. Tell me how my kid brother came to be such a hero!'

'Me? You're the hero, you always have been!'

'No way. You—you saved my life, Gerard. I think that's pretty damned heroic.'

' _I_ think I'm going to be sick,' muttered Iñigo.

Sitting between Marc and Gerard, Marcel listened intently as Gerard told him everything.

'I can't believe it was you, Marci. All this time, it was you! When I worked it out, I knew you were in danger, so I went to find Tommy and told him.'

'Eventually,' Tommy interjected drily. David elbowed him sharply.

'It was Gerard's idea,' David went on, 'he came up with the plan and executed it perfectly. It clearly runs in the family.'

Gerard's eyes shone with pride. 'I did! I thought of how Marc could get you out of the Temple, and how we could get out of Paris, and remembered you'd be hungry and—and everything!'

'And _I_ organised the disguises,' Iñigo pointed out. 'I don't think there's ever been a more convicing plague victim!'

'Yes, Iñigo demonstrated a theatrical flair that put us all to shame,' Tommy continued, 'but the biggest hero was Marc. He had everyone fooled; without him none of us would be here.' He paused while Marcel kissed Marc in gratitude, clearing his throat when the embrace showed few signs of coming to an end.

'I know it started as a bit of excitement, but there are families out there to whom we've really made a difference. To them, the League of the Violet Periwinkle _are_ heroes. We should all be proud of what we've achieved. It gives us something to look back on when we're old.

'Although you two will probably still be pretty stupid,' he added, gesturing at Marcel and Gerard. 'Don't you _ever_ talk to each other?'

'There speaks someone who hasn't got any siblings,' muttered Inigo darkly

Marcel shrugged good-naturedly then grinned conspiratorially at Gerard, who bumped his shoulder and gave a matching grin back.

'I'll be more stupid, though,' Marcel said ruefully.

'Oh, please, _I_ will,' countered Gerard

'Is this going to take much longer?' enquired Iñigo. 'Only, we're still on the run, here. Can we hurry this up at all? Accept you're both proud of each other and get going?'

'He may lack tact, but he has a point,' David agreed. 'It will be sundown soon; we really should be moving then.'

'Can I finish my sandwich first?' asked Marcel.

They sat for a while longer, reliving the escape over wine and sandwiches. Marcel was touched by the pleasure in Gerard's face when he finally accepted his big brother was proud of him. Likewise, Marcel realised he couldn't stop grinning at the thought that Gerard looked up to him. With the last of the wine they toasted the Periwinkle's exploits. Marcel slung an arm around Marc's shoulder and pulled him closer, still not quite able to believe his luck.

The sun was setting as they packed the picnic away. Chattering amicably, they donned their final disguises, mounted up and headed for Spain.

Gerard and Iñigo rode on ahead. Marcel could hear them singing softly,

'They seek him here, they seek him there,  
Those Frenchies seek him everywhere.  
He makes their noses twitch and crinkle,  
That demmed, elusive Periwinkle.'

 

 _xii: Epilogue; 1803_  
Marcel Granollers, Marqués de Castellbell, looked up from the plans on his desk as movement beyond the window caught his eye. When his father had passed on six months ago he had inherited the castle; he was planning renovations and was up to his eyeballs in paperwork. He hoped whoever it was approaching the castle wouldn't require too much of his time.

There was a gentle tap at the door, and Marc came in with the morning coffee. He set down the tray, then walked over to the desk.

'Time for a break, nano. You've got visitors.'

If any of the villagers had seen the kiss with which the Marqués greeted his secretary they would have been horrified. Although, maybe not: Marcel was only too aware of the curiosity with which he was regarded. There was plenty of local gossip about the eccentricity of the new Marqués, who had never married but lived with his secretary, but he was circumspect and careful not to fuel it. What they didn't know, Marcel thought, was how Marc's devastating efficiency was not confined solely to his administrative duties.

'Tio Marcel!'

Before Marc could answer, the door was flung open and a small boy raced in. Marcel picked him up and spun him round, smiling as the boy hiccupped with glee.

'Marcelito! What are you doing here?! Who said you could come in?' His attempt at mock-sternness was foiled when the younger Marcel ignored him and kissed him soundly on the cheek.

'We came to see you, tio Marcel! Mama wanted a nap, she said Papa makes too much noise when we play inside!'

'We decided to take a walk. The baby's exhausting Nuria, I thought it best if we left her to rest.'

Gerard Granollers, Conde d'Aitona, dropped himself onto the sofa and held out a hand to Marc for coffee. On their return from France, Marcel had persuaded their father to bestow one of his other titles upon Gerard. He'd earned it, Marcel had argued, and, after all, one title was enough for any man. It seemed aristocratic airs sat easily with his baby brother.

'How is Nuria?' Marcel asked. Gerard's wife was a tiny, fierce woman who was approaching the end of her second pregnancy.

'She just wants the baby to be born, now.' Gerard stretched out on the sofa, making himself comfortable. 'She's desperate for a girl, though. She doesn't want to be outnumbered, and says if she has two like us this one's going back.'

Marc chuckled and leant into Marcel's embrace. 'She could do worse than sons like you two. Although, having said that, she already has the best one—if she has another it might be like you!'

Marcel rested his chin on Marc's head and sighed contentedly. He was pretty lucky, all things considered. His life was peaceful and unremarkable, he had his Marc and, if he had not provided an heir himself, Gerard had done that for him. The Marquésado would just switch branches when he died.

'Tio Marcel, you promised to teach me to paint! Can we go now? Can we? Can we?'

His nephew may have borne his name, but he had Gerard's insistence and impatience. Feeling the small hand slip into his own, Marcel kissed Marc's cheek and allowed himself to be led to his studio.

Once inside, he handed his nephew a sketchbook and pointed to the bowl in the middle of the table.

'Here, Marcelito, sit next to me. I thought we could start with flowers.'

He pulled out a small purple bloom from the bowl and set it on the table in front of them.

'Do you know what this is?'

His nephew shook his head, and Marcel smiled warmly at him.

'They're ever so easy to draw. It's called a periwinkle. A violet periwinkle.'

_FIN_

 

**Notes and credits:**  
• The whole idea for this story, half the French characters (Mlle St. Just, Marquis de St. Cyr, Comte de Tournay) and most of the rescues are swiped wholesale from Baroness Orczy's The Scarlet Pimpernel. Or, more accurately, the 1982 Anthony Andrews adaptation (while the book is great, the film is much more fun). I hope she doesn't mind too much; it is done with the greatest respect.

• Like the pimpernel, the periwinkle is a real flower. It took me bloody AGES to come up with an alternative name that was native to Spain—at one point he was in danger of becoming the Cobalt Speedwell. Which would have made him sound unfortunately like an American NASCAR driver, whoops.

• The French Revolution is a massive, sprawling, complex thing of which I have (with shocking authorial laziness) barely scraped the surface. There is a basic timeline here, should anyone be interested, but it was at its height 1789-1793, which is when the majority of this story took place. I have tried to stick to the timeline as much as possible, any anomalies are a result of me thinking I'm more important than actual history.

• The Committee of General Security was the agency responsible for referring suspects of treason to the Revolutionary Tribunal. It was later superceded by the more notorious Committee of Public Safety, but that was created a little too late to be used in this story.

• The nobility of Spain is about as complicated as the nobility of England, so at least the ranks were familiar to me. A Marqués outranks a Conde, who outranks a Visconde. Eldest sons of Marqués' take the title Visconde, but younger sons are buggered. All Spanish titles used in this story are genuine and are, as far as I can tell, geographically accurate to the origin of the player upon whom I have bestowed them. Because details are important, yo.

• I have tried to maintain as much historical accuracy as possible with the references used within the story. For example the Café Procope was real, as was La Gazzette, the [breeching process](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Breeching_%28boys%29) and the Hôtel de Crillon (although it wasn't actually a hotel then, but I'm prepared to gloss over that if you are). What isn't real is the Marquis St. Evrémonde ; he's swiped from Charles Dickens' Tale of Two Cities. I really am unconscionably lazy/unable to come up with names.


End file.
